Andreas
I've kept a solemn promise to myself for the future: never, under any circumstance, place your faith on a tattooist who cannot arrive to his sessions on time if he's going to be colouring your lady's skin.
"What do you mean you're coming in half an hour. The session was assigned for"—I glance at the clock above the fridge―"fifteen minutes ago."
"Relax, mate. I'm on my―"
"My lady is fucking waiting. I'm going to―" Seb sneaks up behind me and snatches the phone from my hand, disrupting the completion of what was going to be a very civil threat.
He presses it to his ear and speaks through to the tattooist. "Ethan, sorry. My friend Andreas here," he holds my shoulder, "is in an unfriendly mood today. Take your time. His lady is most certainly not waiting to get her tattoo."
"That's beyond your knowledge."
He ignores me and walks over to the island, taking a seat beside Blake who's poking at the contents of an ash tray with the tip of a burnt-out cigarette. "Of course. I'll make sure to remind him of that. Goodbye." He drops my phone onto the counter and sighs at me. "He said that he can desist from beginning sessions if clients seem liable to behave violently."
Blake sniggers and pulls out another cigarette, and I shoot him a hateful glare.
"When will you ever realize that speaking to people with all your angry bullshit won't get you what you want?" He flicks his lighter and holds it to the end of his cigarette.
"When they realize that 5:30pm doesn't equate to 6:30 fucking pm." I tramp over to the opposite counter and snatch my shake―thirty grams of protein, full cream milk, chocolate flavoured―and guzzle it until I see the bottom of the cup. In one loud, unrestrained motion, I bring it down until it thuds on the countertop and residue slings from inside and splatters on the wall. "Shit!"
"Stop being a doofus," Seb snaps. I watch him with bitter intent as I move to the other side and grab a damp cloth from the lip of the sink. Just before I turn away and start my clean up, I catch Blake's lip twitch through a cloud of smoke. Why does everyone find my irritation so amusing?
"You know," Seb drawls from behind me, "she might say no. Then you'll have no choice but to send Ethan back home."
I wipe the wall harder, scrubbing a non-existent smudge. "She's going to say yes."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't." I hurl the cloth to the wall, a streak of substance leaving a wet mark in its wake. I gesture towards it. "Do you reckon painting our walls grey would be suitable?"
"You're unbelievable."
With Seb's assumption and the now-dirty patch on the wall, I begin on the dishes to extinguish some of the emotional fire that's blazed in the past few minutes. I choose not to snap at them as they leave the kitchen laughing.
A stack of plates with crumbs, mugs with wet clumps of coffee stuck at the base, utensils rested below a surface of water because the sink is clogged, bowls overturned between the clutter―I plunge my sponge into a metal basin of soap water and clean it all, setting the dishes into a drying rack then slumping with my damp hands hanging over the sink.
I expel a load of air and let my attention on a gold-glassed diffuser slowly fade with the growing void that drags me away, my vision becoming the blurry scenery of a kitchen. My mind is urging me to consider too many distant thoughts―a complication coming from my uncertainty on us.
Why are you tattooing her?
I don't need to question myself. I'm...we're both pawns, using each other, playing with each other, acting with each other to irritate Dalia, have her mind blow out with the view of me and Bella groping each other.
But an irrational part of me takes the truth to be something more preposterous.
You're tattooing her, maybe because she's a gorgeous doll you've had your eyes on for months and will eventually get to fuck. Or maybe...maybe your heart is steaming―with affection―and the only way to claim her is by decorating that smooth, silky skin.
The sound of my lungs heaving under my chest isn't loud enough to layer over these bullshit whispers. Blood is leaping in my veins, pumping speedily. Beneath appalling depths, where my thoughts cluster together to try and tease me with my confusion, recollections of my old life with Dalia surge like an angry storm. And some of those memories surface, they rush at me like a swooping eagle:
Andreas had been anticipating one of the most special days of the year. His one-year anniversary. He assured his wife that he'd be at the store that day, watching over the employees and proofreading orders. In being an owner and boss whilst she was just an owner, it wasn't uncommon that he had extra duties to finish until dusk.
But she had expected him to surprise her in the room of their old house. Had expected him to walk in with a container of sweets shaped into a heart in his hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. A lavish bunch of roses.
He dropped them on the floor, let the loose petals fall out, cracked the heart container. Shards scattered and balls of chocolate rolled around as he beheld his wife sprawled across the bed, naked and ready for him.
"I...I'll clean it up, just..." He lost his words with the erotic view. "I've got something else to feed you." He advanced towards her, eager to intertwine his fingers with the dense pack of her auburn air, seal his lips over a thin mouth, gaze at a pair of cerulean eyes as he slipped his cock between her legs.
She had halted his attempt with a hand, glanced around her. It was only then that he noticed the set-up of the bed. The restraint system that was assembled. The fetters that hung from each corner of the headboard.
"I want you..." she said, and enticingly arose from the bed, "to let me take over as my gift. Switch the roles around, see how we like it."
He had been hesitant. He chewed around on the idea of being restrained.
In the end, he surrendered to her request. There was further discussion, his clothes were torn off, he was bound to their bed.
He was going to give his wife a gift.
But he hadn't known his heart would never be the same that day.
That from that day, something would go missing.
⚘
She was ready before I had asked her to be―before I was able to question whether staining her with my tattoos was something she'd allow me to do. Already on the edge of our bed, upper body sheathed by the crisp air that drifts in from beneath closed drapes and a beige bralette, our room veiled in shadows.
I offer a palm, let our hands join as she rises from the bed, and begin my perusal of her arm. A delicate stretch of skin, it is. My thumb skims the surface of her dark red acrylics, the length of her spindly fingers, the top of her palms. Then the beginning of her forearms. All of it, soon to be coloured.
"What else," she demands. Not a question.
Her arms drop as I slowly withdraw. I let my gaze blatantly travel up from where I'd studied those clear patches of skin, to her bare elbows, uncoloured biceps, clean shoulders. It lingers, and the illusory image of having roses there...she catches the decision in my eyes, her own gaze leaping along my collarbone.
She breathes out, focus training on those two large flowers. "It's not for you. I'm just...drawn to the detailing. Something about it is―it's just," a hand on my chest, hesitation to speak next words. "Captivation."
An inability to quell her attraction to the tattoos.
"Captivation." I taste the word on my tongue. "Of course. It's all it needs to be."
A few more tense moments of my skin being inspected and stilling in utter silence, waiting for any contradiction to made, then we've taken to being downstairs on opposite sides of a table.
The dining room, with similar colouration to the kitchen, is a useless space resplendent in garish furnishings and decor to appeal to the eye rather than to serve us during meals. White-upholstered seats with golden frames―same designing as the livings room's couch―gather around a table of a glass surface and upon it, an amber vase with drooping roses matching the chandelier that hangs above.
I try to furtively glance at Bella as Ethan, the disreputable tattooist clad in a plain black attire, studies the stencils he's transferred on to her shoulders and splayed hand rested on the table, tattoo gun ready. Drawn on his light brown skin, a snake coils around his biceps, its tongue peeking through his sleeves where the head hides. Realistically textured scales are peeling off the 3D body of the reptile, given the illusion of falling down his forearm and elbow.
"Stop staring," he says plainly. I return a look to Bella, and she shares the same perplexity as me while the tattooist alternates between staring at her hand and raising his tattoo gun like he's about to begin.
"At what?" It appeared to me that his attention had been fixed on his set task.
"My arm, her hand, her chest."
"You're looking at my tits?" Bella straightens herself, head tilting and eyes widening in a mockery of bafflement. She blinks once, twice. Frowning and drawing out her little act of indirectly questioning me about my crude glances with an innocent, pure stare. Such sweet-looking doe eyes over the face of my naughty lady.
"I'm just hungry," I tell them.
"You know what," Ethan says, looking up at me from his equipment, "the stencil is complete and on her skin, meaning you're no longer required here as a blueprint for the copy."
"And?"
"Your presence is unneeded. Please leave."
"Yes," Bella adds, "I am feeling quite uncomfortable."
"Are you―" I straighten my back and clench my fists. Deprivation makes men like me hungry. Am I meant to just sit here and not offer myself at least the mere sight of sustenance? If I can't get it, then my only choice is to observe.
"An environment is altered upon the client's requests," Ethan informs me. "So I advise again, please leave." They're both looking at me. A tiny twitch of Bella's lips is the only break to her troubled exterior, a hint of amusement.
I level my glare right at those still-pure eyes―gorgeous, bullshitting eyes―as I speak. "This is your first time. I'm not leaving."
"Gosh, you―"
"Shut up, Ethan."
That mask formed by her eagerness to irk me falters. She stares at the tattoo gun, the tip of it, and from the momentary scrunch of her eyebrows, I know she's letting the idea of having that sharp point pierce her finally sink in.
"Let him stay," she says quietly. A relief I don't let show.
"My baby doesn't have enough bravado to handle this herself."
Her hard eyes land on me. I give her an air kiss and reach for her arm—only to have our feisty tattooist block my attempt with a gloved hand.
"Don't touch. The area must remain sterilized." He retracts and readjusts the hold on his tattoo gun, and I try not to bite back as I settle in my seat and watch this unfold before me. Just after he gives Bella a nod to communicate that his work is about to commence, she spares me a worried glance and loosens a strained breath.
The sharp point meets her first finger. Then unwelcome thoughts barge in.
You did it.
She's becoming yours.
She's winning your game.
Unnecessary triumph flowing in from the vision before me. Of her pinching her eyebrows together, stifling a flinch with the movement of the needle, looking up at me worriedly. Taking my mark.
Undergoing the process for the first two hours. After an entire hand is a flourishing sprawl of life crawling up to her wrists.
"You're doing good, baby," I whisper. "One hand is already down."
On Ethan's command, she twists her body and gives access to her opposite hand. The same cycle goes on―her eyeing the needle like it's a predator and she's the prey, turning her pretty, troubled stare to me a moment after it hits, enduring the pricks and seeking reassurance from me which, of course, I give her instantly.
Another hour; another hand.
"Isabella, have I reminded you that you're a pretty woman today?"
"Andreas," Ethan breathes, setting down his gun. "Silence or leave; your choice."
Through difficulty that impedes with my current objective to remain quiet, I manage to decide on the former of my supposed choice and keep my mouth shut. Though uncomfortably shifting when Bella is instructed to repose her head back on the top of her chair. Shoulders bare, with a large rose sketched on each, tattoo gun reaching in from the standing tattooist working over her with complete concentration.
And as it hits―right after she gasps, winces, then surmounts the pain―her eyes reposition to me, to where my arms are crossed atop the glass table, body leaned forward, tightened fists hidden beneath the hold I have on myself.
Her lips manage to quirk up in the corner even when her skin is punctured with Ethan's smooth, curving motions and gun.
She busies herself with the pain. But I gaze at her eyes, at the beautiful ponds of emerald flecked with grey moonlight, and turn away only when they look back at me.